


Ash Wednesday

by Aspergirl



Category: Princess and the Frog (2009)
Genre: Angst, One Shot, One-Sided Attraction, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 17:16:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2033337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aspergirl/pseuds/Aspergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lawrence had a taste of what he wanted, but never found what he needed. He was too afraid to dig deeper because of what he might find.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ash Wednesday

Far from the vibrant spectacle of colors that continued late into the Louisiana night, a cold, grey jail cell awaited the new prisoner with its open door. “With all due respect, I believe you are being rather hasty. This is simply a misunderstanding!” Still outfitted in the prince's finery, Lawrence looked pleadingly at the officers who thrust him inside.

“That ain't gonna wash with Big Daddy LaBoeuf. Tryin' to marry his darlin' daughter under false pretenses.” The officer turned up his nose. Lawrence, who had lost his footing on the uneven stone, wobbled up and clutched at the bars as the door clanged shut, fright spreading across his face. _The very idea of this pudgy li'l fella, no younger than 50, wedded to that sweet young thing? I declare!_

Whimpering, Lawrence clasped his hands together. “Please, gentlemen! I implore you, my intentions were not...”

“Tell it to Sweeney. You've enjoyed the last of our Southern hospitality.”

The iron key twisting in the lock would have sounded ominous on its own, but the uncertainty of his future left Lawrence shivering as the guards took their leave. As the building went quiet, he glanced unbelieving at his surroundings. A cot with a filthy sheet. A toilet. A lone barred window. “Oh, heavens,” he whispered as he hung his head. His forearms still draped through the bars, grasping for freedom that was not to come.

Only now, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, did he see the leering faces of other prisoners across the way. They were dirty, grim, distorted. “Gracious!” Lawrence shrieked, to the eerie delight of the longtime inmates. _I'm sure they would not look so monstrous were they not hidden in the shadows. I have had quite enough of shadows._ He retreated, cringing to the back wall of the cell, where at least he could no longer see the others. The fear of being alone in the silence with his thoughts made their guttural taunting tolerable.

“Woo-wee, they done drug in a baby grand!”

“He's no hardened criminal. A softened criminal, if ya ask me.”

“Don' be afraid. We don' bite... Well, 'cept Jeb here, but he ain't got no teeth.”

“Where'dja go?”

Lawrence could not tell whether his fellow inmates wanted him to feel welcome or terrified. He made no reply, instead curling up, hiding his face. Yes, he had seen more than enough of shadows. _Whatever became of the Shadow Man? If he finds me, he will be furious._ Lawrence pressed his back into the wall. Dr. Facilier had a habit of stalking his prey. Every movement in the darkness looked like the shadow of one of the doctor's “friends”. _I suppose I am safer in here. No judge, jury, or jailor can offer up my soul to hovering demons._

Since shaking on the doctor's deal, Lawrence had wondered often how he got in so deep so quickly.  _The Shadow Man knew my heart's every desire, that's how. He promised me freedom. Thus, I ceased to serve the Prince and became a slave to that bloody monster. I traded one set of shackles for another._ Lawrence slumped over, disappointed in himself for not seeing sooner the consequences he would face. But with Facilier's perfect reading of him, he was unable, or unwilling, to see.

As a young man, Lawrence escaped from his mother and his sister and his brother, and he set out for Maldonia. It was distant, the country was beautiful, and so were the women. Besides, Maldonia maintained neutrality in the face of the Great War, and would never call him to the front lines. Like Naveen, he arrived in his new country penniless; unlike Naveen, he had none of the good looks or easy charm to get by. He barely spoke a handful of words in Maldonian. But none of that mattered when he got word that the Maldonian royal family was seeking an attendant for the young Prince. The position promised respect and a comfortable living, and Lawrence was delighted to be chosen for his ability to instruct the boy in English. He fully expected to put his early life of servitude fully behind him.

Working in the palace was more glamourous than being an errand boy to his aging mother, but required the same subservience. _I was selected to instruct him in the Queen's English. I recall more “bring me... fetch me... carry me...” than verb conjugation. Well, I suppose he_ _ **was**_ _practicing his imperatives when ordering me about. No wonder he mastered them so quickly._ When Lawrence accepted his position, he met the young Prince, a boy of seven who was making his best effort to look majestic, but as soon as his parents' backs were turned, forgot majesty in favor of examining his mouth and nostrils in his reflection in a decorative suit of armor. _He was in dire need of my instruction in etiquette as well. Any semblance of social grace he possesses he owes to me!_ How much of Lawrence's instruction Naveen actually put to use was debatable, but there was no arguing that Naveen had become more sophisticated in the art of manipulation under a thin veneer of class.

By the end of his first week with the Prince, Lawrence had seen the boy stop responding to him with the obedience he showed his parents. Instead, he tested his aide's mettle almost daily, particularly when his parents sailed away in the name of foreign relations – whether it was climbing to the top of a bookcase where he knew Lawrence could not reach him, or embellishing his servant's photograph with a tail and a bunch of bananas and scrawling the Maldonian word “mimun” underneath.

Perhaps Naveen could order him to do this or fetch that, or even subject him to open ridicule, but the boy could not stop him from enjoying as much fine Maldonian cuisine as he wanted. Such was one of the few joys of a palace manservant. After nearly an hour fighting his young charge into appropriate clothing for a banquet, helping himself to a few extra pastries seemed a reasonable addition to his modest salary. Although the more messy adventures tapered off as Naveen grew, the young man discovered endless new ways to subtly remind Lawrence of his place, even the Prince's last party in Maldonia before setting out for New Orleans.

“How about a little jazz music to set the mood?” Naveen purred into the ear of a girl seated beside him. Not to be left out, the other girls at the table reached out for his hands or to stroke a ringlet of his hair. Sitting tall, Naveen snapped his fingers. “Lawrence!”

Obediently, Lawrence hurried to the prince's side. “Sire?”

“My guests and I,” Naveen paused for the wave of giddy giggles he expected from the young ladies, “would like to listen some American music.” The youngsters all raised their glasses and drank to that.

_Of course,_ thought Lawrence, wondering what supernatural feat Naveen might be expecting from him.  _ Allow me to go to the coast and push Maldonia across the pond. Anything for his Highness.  _ But he was not brave enough to say more than “Of course.”

A great cabinet containing Naveen's comprehensive jazz collection stood nearby. Naveen looked thoughtful, then pointed, “Hmm. That one. 'Workingman's Blues'. It is on the top shelf.”

Lawrence hesitated. The record was very high up.  _ Is he mad? How in heaven's name does he expect me to reach it? _

“What do you wait for?  _ Preza _ !” Naveen waved Lawrence away, and the girls pressed up against the Prince and waited to see how the small, round man would accomplish the task.

Taking a deep breath and a chair from the corner, Lawrence kept his eye on the record. He pushed the chair up to the front of the cabinet and climbed awkwardly onto the seat. He was already nervous without solid ground beneath his feet.

The record was still out of reach. He stood on pointed toes and could just barely touch the corner of the grey album cover. Too afraid to turn around and risk losing his balance, Lawrence squeaked, “It's this one, then?”

“Yes, it's this one, then,” Naveen replied, followed by more laughter at the imitation of the lisping servant.

Stretching himself as tall as he could, Lawrence tried to get a grip on the record, but try as he might, could not reach it. Discouraged, Lawrence brooded,  _I have a mind to tell him to retrieve it himself._

Before he could get the words out, he heard some chatter in Maldonian from the table behind him, then Naveen addressed Lawrence in English, “You don't listen?”

Lawrence felt all the eyes in the room fixed on him. On impulse, he made a leap for the record and snatched it, tottering for a moment. The partygoers cheered and clapped, and for a second, Lawrence was pleased with himself. The warmth was ripped away by a chill down his spine when he felt the chair quake beneath his feet and collapse. He hit the marble floor, landing hard on his knees and one arm. In his other hand, he still clutched the intact record.

Naveen danced his way past Lawrence, collecting the record from his hand and popping it onto the phonograph. The hot rhythm of King Oliver crackled through the speaker, calling everyone to their feet. Even Lawrence stood up, but only to be sure that he hadn't broken anything. Other than the chair, he hadn't. But his pride had been bruised dreadfully.  _That is well and truly enough. Naveen must find himself another source of amusement, as I shall retire for the night. Perhaps I shall retire for good._ He knew he would not, could not, fare much better elsewhere, but he was free to imagine.

Just as Lawrence was stepping out of the ballroom, a hand caught him by the collar. “Where you go?” Naveen called into Lawrence's ear as though the valet was at the far end of the room. Taking a break from the bevy of eligible ladies fawning over him, he spun Lawrence to face him and roughly poked the shorter man's round belly. “You need exercise. Come, I show you!” The Prince drunkenly dragged Lawrence around the perimeter of the dance floor while the guests roared with laughter.

In his enthusiasm, Naveen inadvertently twirled Lawrence into a tray table, upsetting some crockery. “No, no, sire...” Compulsively, Lawrence wanted to break free, pick up the dropped china, and reassemble it. Taking care of the Prince was as natural as breathing. But the Prince clung to him tighter, not ready to sit this dance out. The record stopped and Naveen looked down at Lawrence, who was blushing brightly, eyes glistening in a tempest of emotion. Surprised by the look on his valet's face, Naveen released him.

Exhausted and aching, Lawrence took a seat at the table. _His mother and father will be livid when they return. The spending, the destruction, the women. What cheek they have, these women of status, putting fancy before propriety. I might expect such from a chambermaid._ He rubbed his arm, wincing, only to receive a push in the shoulder from Naveen.

“You sit yourself on the floor. I don't want that you break other chair!” The atmosphere – and certainly the alcohol – were having an effect on the accuracy of the Prince's English, not unlike the effect on his treatment of the servant. Lawrence hated to take such an order, but the insistent pushing on his sore arm convinced him to sink to the floor, defeated, before retreating to his chamber. The night continued for hours of champagne, dancing, and lust.

Sure enough, when her and his Majesty returned from their travels, they were most displeased with Lawrence's report of Naveen's extravagant spending in their absence. However, they proved equally disappointed in Lawrence, chiding him for “failing to guide the Prince to exercise temperance.” He wanted to tell them that Naveen did not listen to him, and that Naveen rarely spoke to him unless giving a command. Yet like any other time when he was being reprimanded, Lawrence could only listen in silence, then humbly remove his hat and apologize profusely.

Even overhearing the Queen scolding the boy proved no consolation. “Lawrence is here to serve you, but we always have to remind you that you must serve  _him_ well, also. You show your horse more consideration.”

“My horse isn't such a nag.” He chuckled to himself. “You know? Horse... nag!”

Lawrence certainly felt lower in status than Naveen's prize stallion. Especially the day he was used as a stepping block by Naveen to mount his horse. The Prince had galloped off without so much as a “thank you” before Lawrence could rise to his feet.  _By what mischief do these tyrants pluck me out of a crowd for degradation? Do I smell of poverty?_ Just to be sure, Lawrence breathed in his scent, a commingling of his own dusty cologne and Charlotte's perfume. 

Charlotte.  _Certainly Naveen has whisked her off to consummate their marriage. Pity he will only break her heart with his continental frivolity._ It was the first time he had held a beautiful, adoring girl in his arms, stroked her hair, kissed her. He had expected to have strong feelings about that, but the feeling that dominated him was a sense of being watched by Facilier. Alone in the riverside gazebo in the hazy dusk, he showed perfect restraint. Less could be said for Charlotte herself, who liked to lean in close and drape herself over him, allowing him a divine view of her décolletage. Her hands and hips had brushed against his legs. Although she cooed, “Pardon me,” in her most ladylike voice, her face told a different story. 

_Perhaps I did not love her – yet – but I did not wish to compromise our courtship with unseemly conduct. She saw his body, but it was I who wooed and won her. I was a gentleman._ Gentleman or not, here he was behind bars, while Naveen was likely still out chasing skirts.  _Is deceiving one's lover a crime? If so, then Naveen would be locked up until the jail collapsed on top of him, for all of his hollow “I love yous”._ He reasoned that hiding his true identity was a more glaring lie than false words of devotion, but that did not ease the sting of knowing that his looks were the cause of her alarm.  _She screamed with disgust when she saw me._ Looking himself over now, he was equally disgusted.  _Now she has her handsome prince. I'm on the peg for it and will sleep alone, as I do._ The threadbare cot did provide him one small comfort; it did not emphasize his lack of a bed partner like his generous feather bed in the palace.

_How many nights could I scarcely sleep for overhearing his Eminence entertaining a lady friend?_ He tried to convince himself that the disrupted nights were the result of sounds of love erupting from the chamber above. In fact, he remembered many of those nights, drenched in sweat, desperately trying to bring himself to pleasure as he listened. More than once or twice, he had even crept up the stairs to peek into the keyhole to steal glimpses of what had always been denied to him.  _How I used to stand at the door, on alert for any threat of being caught. Watching Naveen pounce, the way he would descend with kisses, his body..._ Lawrence smiled in spite of himself.  _How I admired his body._

In Naveen's skin, Lawrence learned very quickly to be conscious of his affections, without the security of his paunch to hide his arousal. He feigned disinterest in his new body – poorly – when Facilier returned him to the LaBoeufs' guest house to change his clothes and prepare for the masquerade, both public and private. He placed his frog prince's jar in the cupboard. Before he could close the doors, he paused, seeing the ragged breathing of the little animal. Automatically, he unscrewed the lid and returned to readying himself without giving the frog another thought.

He had every intention of quickly changing from his plain black suit into the succulent satin ensemble that he had insisted on bringing for his charge. Peeking into the full-length mirror, he saw the godlike physique of the Prince, but with the self-conscious, retreating posture of the homely servant he really was.  _If I am to convince anyone that I am he, a little practice is in order._ Awkwardly at first, Lawrence threw his chest forward and raised his chin. He experimented with placing his hands on his hips, strutting, making eyes. In doing so, he felt the tightness in his underclothes. It was with bated breath that he also removed them to reveal inch after inch of taut, tanned skin. 

_Oh... my._ Lawrence typically avoided mirrors. Now, he was making up for that. He turned the mirror so that it faced towards the grand bed prepared for the Prince. He lay down luxuriously, arching his back, drinking in his fine, young form. He had never laid an untoward hand on Naveen. In the past couple of years, he had dismissed as a passing fancy his curiosity for the kind of attention that Naveen showed his lady friends. But the curiosity never did pass, and always nagged at him when he had overheard Naveen's amours from upstairs. _I must put it out of my head. The boy would never lay with a man as he lays with a woman. And certainly not a man like..._ He brought back his focus to the moment at hand. He had Naveen's body now, and was free to explore. The masquerade would still be going on when he was through.

By the time the party descended into chaos, Lawrence's carefree enjoyment of his new life was already rapidly depleting. The threat of the Shadow Man's wrath was never far away. Before the same mirror that had allowed him such delight earlier in the evening, Facilier cuffed him sharply in the head for letting Naveen escape. It wasn't the first time the man would attack him physically, and it would not be the last.

_Naveen never struck me._ For all of the Prince's rough-housing, there was never true malice in it. Lawrence even remembered their first meeting with Facilier, how the strange man loomed aggressively over him... and how Naveen gave him a reassuring smile, patting his shoulder.  _Why, he was being positively compassionate._ In the darkened cell, Lawrence placed a soft hand on his own shoulder to recreate the feeling. Some of the tension in his muscles melted away.  _The boy was not one to be sentimental. If only I had looked deep enough to recognize it._ _How often did I scold him for sharing his off-colour jokes with me? Or mistake playfulness for outright cruelty?_ Trying to count would be like counting stars. 

_He meant me no harm. He is a spirited young man who tried to include me, the closest semblance of a friend he possessed, in his merriment. So intent was I on cultivating a sense of propriety in him, I failed to notice what he could teach me. What he could give me._ He looked down, seeing his pudgy hands. The hands that shook on the Shadow Man's deal. The hands that held the talisman containing his stolen looks and identity. The vengeful hands that squeezed the frog prince so tightly that the creature thought he would burst. Now it was Lawrence who felt trapped and bursting.  _The ingrate I was. The Prince was the dearest friend I knew, and I betrayed him._

Lawrence felt ill with Naveen's fine clothing covering his body. He wanted to rip it to shreds – no, rip _himself_ to shreds. _I can't live with myself._ In a fit of frustration, he fumbled with the sash around his middle until it came loose. Gingerly, he climbed onto the cot and stood unsteadily as he grabbed for the window. The cot drooped and groaned beneath his weight, and he just barely stood tall enough to reach the bars. It was a feeling all too similar to that night Naveen requested a little jazz music, and Lawrence was bound and determined to feel it no more. Two bright stars twinkled in the deep night; Lawrence did not appreciate their beauty and closeness, only the precious little light they offered as he knotted the satin sash around the bars and pulled it tight.

“Est motier foux,” gummed toothless Jeb.

Another voice. “Son, you ain't gon' fit through them bars, no way.”

Ignoring everything outside himself, Lawrence looped the other end of the sash around his neck. He tiptoed to the edge of the cot. He was not terribly far off the ground, but for a man of his stature at the business end of a noose, looking down was staring into the abyss. The material pressed expectantly against his throat. It squeezed his Adam's apple with each hard, fearful swallow. His nerves were further agitated by the sensation of many eyes on him. Whether or not the prisoners could actually see him, he did not know. But the thought of dying in the company of none but murderers and thieves proved yet another source of pain.

He slipped out from the loop of fabric and sat on the edge of the cot, covering his face with his hands. _I can't. After all my years of taking orders, I haven't the courage to put an end to my suffering. I shall have to face what I've done, to face trial, the Shadow Man, Naveen and Charlotte..._ Raising his head, he looked again out the window to see the faintest pink of dawn tinting the sky, while the two bright stars still blazed in the center of heaven. _I wish only that I live long enough to see freedom and make amends._ Without yet realizing, he had not done what he wanted; he did what he needed.


End file.
